The Silver Boat (29 page)

“What's taking them so long?” Harrison asked, drinking from his own bottle of champagne while lying in the grass beside the electric guitar, now back in its plush-lined leather case.

“Whose guitar is that anyway?” Andy asked. “Would you want your priceless freaking instrument to be sitting in someone's yard?”

“If it were the right someone's yard,” Harrison said. “Yes. I would. So. Where's Pete?”

Andy shrugged and shook his head. He looked toward Dar, and she gave him a quizzical glance. He flushed and looked away.

“What's going on?” she asked. “You don't know where he is?”

“No, not exactly,” Andy said.

“But isn't he working for you?”

“He asked for a little time off,” Andy said.

“Just as his mother's coming out? Delia will be so disappointed.”

“I think he spoke to her about it.”

Dar was still, taking that in. She walked into the kitchen to check on the sautéed fingerling potatoes, chilled salad, and tiny purple beets. She checked the cooling plum tart—it looked pretty good, considering she never baked. Moving around, she kept her eye on the driveway, watching for headlights.

Pete. It wasn't a good sign that her nephew had asked for time off work and that he wasn't here at the family celebration. She knew that the odds of an addict's staying sober were much worse than those of his going back to using. In spite of Andy seeming calm about it, Dar worried.

She'd left Pete messages on his voice mail, inviting him to the party, telling him his mother and Rory would be here, too. It was out of character for him not to call her back. Just in case, she tried him again, with no answer.

The night lit up, and headlights came swinging toward the house. Dar stepped outside. She'd put on a long navy blue dress, fitted at the waist, then flaring to her bare feet. She wore silver hoop earrings and a collection of long silver chains. She'd hoped Andy would think she looked pretty, but he seemed lost in thought. Only Harrison seemed really ready to celebrate.

Dar thought of Tim McCarthy. He had answered her long e-mail with an even longer one of his own, asking if he could visit the Vineyard and see the famously rescued property as well as the parchment land grant at the end of the summer, when his busiest time was over. She had written back yes, she and her family would love to have him.

And here they came now: her family. Her two sisters approached the house. They each wore shorts and T-shirts; they weren't carrying luggage. Dar ran to them, and they all collided in a hug, their heads pressed together.

“You look beautiful,” Delia said.

“It's a Daggett's Way summer party!”

“I'm so sorry. This is it,” Rory said, gesturing at her cargo shorts and Mystic Aquarium shirt.

“We should have figured,” Delia said.

“That's okay,” Dar said, her arms around both of them. “We're together, that's what counts.”

She and her sisters walked around the corner of the house, and Harrison let out a wolf whistle.

“But we're not even dressed up,” Rory said.

“So what? You're still the hottest beach girls on this island.”

Andy came over to say hi, kiss the sisters' cheeks, and they hugged him back.

Rory stared at the guitar, then closed her eyes to listen to the breeze drift across the strings. Harrison disrupted her reverie, reaching for her hand. She glanced down and smiled.

“Coming inside?” she asked.

“Of course,” Harrison said, stubbing out his cigarette, shoving his bottle of champagne under his arm, letting Rory pull him up.

Dar saw Delia acting nervous, pacing around. She waited for her to ask about Pete. As Rory and Harrison carried the guitar into the house, the wind picked up. It sent the lanterns swaying on their wires, then blew the tea lights out all at once. The temperature suddenly dropped.

Glancing up at the sky, Dar saw her galaxy of stars obscured by scraps of cloud blowing in from the east. She'd checked the weather for tonight—nothing had been predicted, but this felt like a front moving through. The first raindrops fell, few and far between.

“Andy, will you help me move the table?” she asked, as Delia gathered up the place settings.

He grabbed one end, and she got the other. Together they carefully lifted the heavy teak table up the wide plank stairs, kept it level, and settled it on the house's leeside porch, as the wind yanked at the tablecloth. Andy went back for the chairs, and Dar and Delia grabbed one each.

The rain began to fall hard, driving sideways along the south shore. It slapped the house and made windows rattle. Scup ran inside, four ratty cats and the people right behind him.

Dar stood in the open doorway, scanning the yard for the fifth. “Here, kitty,” she called. “Here, kitty kitty.”

“Which one is missing?” Harrison asked.

“Number Five,” Dar said. They'd been feral kittens, and her mother had never really named them, not wanting to get too attached to animals who might not stay. She'd called them “Untitled Number One,” “Untitled Number Two,” all the way to Five, trying to be as unsentimental as possible in case they ran off.

“Your mother killed me, naming them that,” Harrison said. “She was so not a minimalist. Just check out her décor—I mean before you boxed most of it up. She had a needlepointed coaster on every mahogany surface, sterling-silver framed photos on the goddamn grand piano. That is not a woman who names her kittens ‘Untitled.'”

“She had secret nicknames for them,” Rory said. “After flowers . . . Dahlia, Tiger Lily, Daisy. That's all I can remember.”

Delphinium and Holly,
Dar thought.

“You know what's the worst thing about parents dying?” Harrison said. “It's all the questions you'll never get to ask them. Little things you thought you'd have forever to find out.”

“It's true,” Rory said, leaning into him.

Andy walked in. “Well, I think it's a nor'easter,” he said, putting his arm around Dar. “The rain's completely doused the coals. We'll have to start over, or broil the fish in here.”

“Fish,” Harrison said, pretending to pound the table. “I should have put in my request for a nice steak.”

Dar went to the refrigerator and pulled out something wrapped in butcher paper. “Just for you,” she said.

“Thank you, sweetie,” he said. “See, this is what's great about us. No deep dark secrets. No saying you can't have beef, it'll give you gout. No holding back on the champagne. Or, if you're off the sauce, good for you. We applaud you, and shall drink yours. Let's get our glasses,” he said, rushing onto the protected porch, returning with the crystal.

Andy poured mineral water for Dar and himself; Harrison poured champagne for Delia and Rory, topped off his own glass and raised it.

“To our Vineyard family,” Harrison said. “And to Michael McCarthy for keeping us together.”

They clinked, and Dar, hesitant, met her sisters' eyes. Their expressions were dark and solemn.

“What is it?” she asked, knowing but not wanting to know. Her heart was in her throat and she couldn't speak or swallow.

“Dar, we love you,” Delia said.

Rory took Dar's hand, held it in both of hers against her heart. “We had to come in person, we couldn't tell you on the phone.”

“Who is it? What happened?” she asked.

“This has been incredibly hard,” Rory said.

“It has,” Delia said. “I've lost so much sleep thinking about it; I know Rory has, too.”

“Just tell me!”

“We've decided we want to sell,” Rory said.

“Sell?”

“Daggett's Way. The whole property, even Dad's land grant,” Delia said.

“It's too much for me,” Rory said, her eyes pooling with tears. “I'm so sorry, Dar. But this place is loaded, way more than I can take.”

“Because of Jonathan?”

“And everything,” Rory said. “Just what we all went through for so long. Thinking Dad was dead, never hearing from him. He never called to say that he'd made it safely to Cork.”

“He never doubted he'd make it home,” Dar whispered.

“But he
didn't
make it home,” Rory said.

“Dar, Mom living here was one thing. But it would be so hard for us; none of us has the money to keep it up the way it should be.”

“But if we auction off the deed . . .” Dar said.

“Did you hear what we're saying?” Rory asked. “Delia and I want out. We'd like us all to agree to accept this most recent offer. I spoke to Morgan, and she says it's all cash, and that the couple has no intention of tearing down the house. The opposite—they love it and want to keep it just the way it is.”

Dar's heart and mind were numb. She turned from her sisters. Harrison and Andy were hanging back, waiting for the dust to settle. She hurried past them without a glance. At the French doors in the living room, she grabbed the flashlight her mother had always kept there, and walked outside.

Someone called her name, but she ignored it. She was Dulse, a water spirit, and no rain had ever bothered her. It soaked her long dress, made it drag through the mud and sand. Her bedraggled hair fell into her eyes. The wind was blowing so hard, she had to lean into its force; it tried to blow her back to the house, but she fought hard.

When she got to the boardwalk, she saw that it had been blown off the normally gentle creek into the yard. She waded through the surging torrent of the incoming tide, feeling crabs scuttle under and over her toes, minnows pecking at her skin. Stepping out on the other side, she climbed to the top of the dune.

She shone her flashlight out at the ocean. The beam caught one turbulent frothy white wave after another. She held the light steady, and just beyond the surf break she saw a white sloop heeled over, slicing through the sea. It sailed with such grace, even through this wild storm.

She took a step closer, into the tall dune grass, and felt something soft with her toes. Shining the light down, she cried out, knelt in the sand, picked up the small, ragged body. Its fur was knotted and tangled, covered with blood and sand. The marsh hawk had come down here to hunt, and had gotten Dahlia, the tiny fifth cat.

Holding the body, Dar began to cry. The storm covered her howls as she rocked back and forth. The wild cats had been part of her family forever, and now one was gone. Her parents were dead, and her sisters didn't want the house.

Dar felt arms encircling her.

“Dar,” Rory whispered.

“We love you,” Delia said.

Dar couldn't look into their eyes, couldn't stop sobbing. “The poor little cat,” she wept.

“Come inside,” Rory said, gently easing her toward the house.

“It won't be the same,” Dar sobbed. “How can you do this? We'll fall apart.
We
won't be the same without this place . . .”

“We always will. You can come to us,” Rory said. “We all have to heal from this spring, and everything that came with it. You already know this house has changed—for you, me, Delia. For all of us. Dar, please . . .”

But Dar drifted away. It was just like when she'd been twelve and she'd thought she'd never see her father again. The grief had wrapped around her like the ugliest vine. She felt it coming for her again, kneeling in the wet sand. It twisted through her, strangling her insides, wrapping her heart like a mummy. She couldn't fight it; she just buried the tiny old cat as deeply as possible in the sand and went away.

 

 

Dar never actually passed out or lost consciousness; she just went so deeply inside herself there were no words to be spoken, heard, no communication at all. She had locked herself in, yet she knew what she was doing as she moved along through the sludge.

Before she left the house, she signed the quitclaim deed Rory and Delia had provided.
Do you see this part?
they seemed to be asking her.
Are you sure?
She might have nodded. They thanked her, or at least she saw gratitude and worry in their eyes. She saw Andy's eyes glinting with fury, and she could almost imagine him telling them Dar wasn't in her right mind. She would have put her hand on his wrist, reassured him that she was.

She wasn't sure where she slept that night, but when she woke up in the morning, she was in her mother's bed, Rory and Delia on either side of her. Sunlight came through the window. When she got up she looked out. The sea was calm, as if last night's storm had never happened.

She had to leave. Seeing her sisters was too much—she felt she barely knew them, yet the sight of them filled her with despair. She would never have gone against them; she'd thought they were in this together, and it killed her to know that they weren't. She had always loved things too much, she told herself. This house and people and little wild cats.

Tears streamed down her cheeks; she knew that this was the moment when everything changed, yet again, forever. Losing her father had not prepared her for the many subsequent losses of life. A house was nothing but boards, shingles, bricks, mortar. A structure, inanimate and impermanent.

And she and her sisters: the threads that had held them together all their lives had just given way. The worst part was Dar knew that Rory and Delia had cut them.

FROM “UNDER SATURN,” BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS